


When Mirrors Break

by rewrittengirl



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel of Music, Blonde Christine, F/M, Pro-R/C, Retelling, Reworking, mentor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rewrittengirl/pseuds/rewrittengirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe: Christine Daaé, a soprano at the Paris Opera House, lacks the power to move people with her voice since her father died the year before. On her way to pay her respects to his grave, she meets a curious and handsome man named Raoul de Chagny, who is enthralled by her the moment he hears her sing. Not long after, however, she meets another curious man... A man in a mask. As she grows steadily involved with both of them, the mysterious (and unhinged) Erik as a wary friend and mentor, and the kind Raoul as something more romantic, she begins to realize that a man's exterior does not always reflect the interior, and that what lies beneath is only a crack in the glass away from coming to the surface...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meetings Missed & Friendships Earned

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a VERY old story that was written long before I knew I wanted to be a writer. However, I read it over again, and I realize it's really not all that bad, in fact it's quite good. I'm shocked that the younger me knows how to write like this, honestly, when other works from this period of my life are REALLY bad. There are two chapters currently written, but if there is enough interest I will continue the third chapter, which I have started. Enjoy reading!

Raoul watched her.   
  
She was a quiet little thing. Her movements were no more than a bird would make. Her eyes were sad and lonely, but her lips were permanently set in a small smile. She fiddled with that golden hair that cascaded down her chest and back in large waves. Her dress rustled a little each time she moved her legs, the heavy fabric keeping them from ever crossing.  
  
Why did this girl make him sway? What was it about her that made his knees go weak?   
  
Ah, yes. Her voice. The voice that would make her the envy of any angel. Did she even know how beautiful her voice was? Could she even guess what bliss lie in that heavenly throat?  
  
Probably not. The girl seemed a bit distant with herself. She muttered little whispers of thought as she gazed out the frozen window. The mere cold had turned to snow, and the guests at the inn were forced to stay until the storm dissipated.   
  
He had been planning to leave that morning, but finding the landscape blanketed in white put a damper on his plans. He was informed that none of them could leave, or else they would make it as far as the end of the road before they froze to death.  
  
Raoul's annoyance had been plain to see. Without this girl's distraction he would have made the other guests lives living hell. His brother had said that this meeting was of great importance, and he couldn't afford to miss it. And before she had caught his eye, he made it explicably known that he was inconvenienced. He would complain to everyone and anyone who would listen (and by the time eleven o'clock came 'round, he was deserted).   
  
But by eleven, he had already heard this melodious woman's harmonies, and there was no need to protest. One of the other guests happened to be a pianist, and he led the woman in a song to entertain the displaced guests. Her singing moved every soul in the room to tears.   
  
But she payed no attention to him. Once she finished her aria, she strolled to the bay window, sitting down to gaze at the frigid snow. It occurred to him that she was depressed. Perhaps he might cheer her up? Oh, but he was no good at that... He knew how they talked, those people in those gossipy social circles. They called him a complete bore. They'd much rather socialize with his amusing brother.   
  
He didn't want to make the poor girl yawn. She seemed so beautifully sad already that talking to her would just be a waste of time. Still, he wanted to hear her voice again, and doubted that she would sing any more than she had.  
  
Raoul made up his mind. He would speak to her. He would steal her attention from whatever it was that troubled her, and make that false smile on her lips genuine.  
  
He quietly approached her. He shuffled his feet, not even looking her in the eye. Oh, why was he always like this!? He always choked when talking to a woman. The opposite sex and its workings completely eluded him, and for that he was scared to death by them.  
  
He stopped in front of her, waiting for her to notice him. He placed his hands around his back, slowly inching his eyes up to her face. When she finally looked at him, he saw just how brilliant and pure her cobalt eyes were. They seemed to stare into his very soul without even trying.  
  
The man cleared his throat, trying to be as suave as he could without making a complete fool of himself.  
  
"Is this seat taken?" He asked, gesturing to the other side of the bay window seat.  
  
She looked down at the seat as if she didn't know. She shook her head and went back to staring out the window.  
  
Raoul was unsure of himself as he sat down next to her, trying to keep his distance. He gazed at her, doubting if she noticed him, but he lacked the courage to start a conversation. That was his problem, wasn't it? He was terrible at beginning conversations.  
  
"I assume, sir, that you wish to speak with me?" The blonde suddenly said, startling him.  
  
"I--I... Ah... Hmm... Yes." He stammered, blushing.   
  
She turned back to the window. "Then speak. Don't just sit there like a lame child." Her tone was not cruel. Just blunt.  
  
Raoul faltered in his speech. "I--I had hoped to ask you your name, but if that is too forward of me I shan't bother you..." He moved to get up.  
  
"Don't leave. Just speak as you came to do." The whole time she spoke she did not look at him. The snow was the only thing in her sight.  
  
He sat back down and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “My name is de Chagny... Raoul de Chagny. And yours?” He left out the Vicomte part, as he did not know how her wealth suited her. He did not want to be insulting.  
  
“Christine Daaé.”   
  
 _Christine..._  His lips mimicked the name lightly, so as not to alert her attention. It was still transfixed on the frozen glass. “Christine... May I say what a lovely voice you have?” he asked without stopping himself, though he wished he had.  
  
She suddenly looked at him with suck a quick glance that he’d missed the point when she turned her head. Her lips quivered, as if she was about to cry, but she blinked and the faux smile returned. “Yes, yes of course you may, sir. I’m pleased it agreed with you.”  
  
“Oh, it more than agreed with me!” He placed his hands on hers, folded across her lap, but pulled them away when he realized what impertinence he displayed. He blushed rose pink and looked away. “Pardon my... obtuseness, Mademoiselle.”  
  
Apparently she had enjoyed his little display, and began to laugh. A genuine smile, for the first time, graced her features, and he beamed at her, glad to make her happy. She covered her mouth to hide her Cheshire grin.  
  
“Monsieur, it is no trouble at all.” She nodded toward him. She lifted herself off the seat and glided toward a nearby bookcase, picking a random book off the shelf, though it was obvious she wanted him to follow. He joined her, glancing at the titles on the shelf absent-mindedly.   
  
“Have you ever considered a career at the Opera? My brother and I are patrons, and could secure you a position...”  
  
Christine laughed again, but this was with sarcasm. “Of course I have. I already am a part of the chorus, and understudy to one of the supporting females.” She flipped through the book of plays, not really reading the words, it seemed.  
  
“Oh, then I must have seen you!” He was surprised he did not recognize her, though he never usually payed attention to the chorus.   
  
“Not likely. You Opera patrons are usually transfixed by the Prima Donna, La Carlotta, are you not?”  
  
“Well... I... Ah...” he stammered. “I have never particularly taken a liking to her. My brother is more fond of La Sorelli, your principle ballerina.”  
  
She snapped the book closed and whirled around to face him, pointing the tip of the text to him accusingly. “Ah ha! So you are the Vicomte that little Meg always talks about! She’s always seeing you hanging around, waiting for your brother when he’s through flirting with Sorelli!”  
  
His eyes widened, and he blushed in embarrassment. He stroked his moustache and looked away. “I suppose so.”  
  
“Hmph.” She opened the book again and flipped through the pages once more, turning away. “She always said you were a tad bit effeminate. I can see what she meant.” She began to walk away, as if displaying boredom.  
  
He huffed, blinking in confusion. Effeminate? He? His brother always said that being in the Navy had made him more manly, but perhaps he was trying to mask how he really felt. “Mademoiselle, please!” He touched her shoulder to stop her from leaving.   
  
Christine began to turn back to him, and her hair brushed his fingers for a moment. He pulled his hand away to rub them, relishing how the strands had felt against them. She set the book back on the shelf without her gaze leaving his. “You are very distressed, Monsieur. Is something the matter?”  
  
He shoved his hands in his pockets, strolling off to the side a little in thought. “Oh, it is nothing. You see, my brother had arranged for a meeting in the city that I was to attend so that I may be eligible to travel to America on a learning exercise. I was in the country visiting one of our sisters, and as I was travelling back to Paris the storm hit... And I’m afraid I will miss the meeting.”  
  
“I am sorry for your loss,” she said touching his arm.   
  
He smiled back at her. “It is alright, Mademoiselle. Your singing cheered me greatly. As does your company!”  
  
She smiled equally. “I’m glad.” Her eyes drifted off to the distance as she walked back to the window to sit down.   
  
Suddenly, the innkeeper called out from the kitchen for lunch. It stopped her in her tracks, and she absently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She began to walk quietly to the dining hall, but Raoul caught her arm. “Christine... If you have no one else to speak with, perhaps you would like to sit next to me when taking lunch? I hope I am not a complete bore...”  
  
She smiled at him, truly pleased that someone had bothered to ask her. “Not at all, Monsieur le Vicomte. It would be... much appreciated.”  
  
He gleamed. He held out his left arm to her, and she graciously took it. He led her to the dining hall, where other guests were gathering.  
  
“You have sisters?”  
  
“Yes, two. Both married on the same exact day! Karine has a young girl named Nathalie, naught but two years old. Louise has yet to have any children, but she has expressed interest to her husband that...”  
  
They continued like this long past lunch, and by the time night had come ‘round, they had become inseparable (which of course caused a bit of gossip, but nothing too serious). They parted ways to their separate rooms with sadness, though with promise to meet in the morning before their departure from the inn.  
  
That night, as Raoul lay wide awake in bed, his thoughts were only of the sad woman with the crystal blue eyes. In less than a day his eyes had been opened to a world of music, magic and art in the web she had painted with her beautiful words. In less than a day, he had missed a meeting of vital importance yet didn’t seem to care. In less than a day, he had realized what he’d missed out by forgoing the chorus during the opera for the sights of the principles.  
  
In less than a day, he had fallen in love.

 


	2. Just Erik

The following morning, the boarders prepared to depart, but two patrons were not without their sad goodbyes.  
  
Christine began to lift her luggage into the coach, but not without difficulty. The icy snow made her feet slip, and suddenly she began to fall to the ground. A warm grip enveloped her, and she found herself looking up into a kind man's face hidden underneath a dark gray top hat.  
  
"Mademoiselle Christine, you must be careful!" Raoul de Chagny helped her to her feet. "It is dangerous on the roads today."  
  
She nodded with a small smile, wrapping her scarf more tightly around her head to keep from the cold. She reached for her bag once more, but the Vicomte gripped it before her, and lifted it with ease into the carriage. "Thank you, Monsieur," she said, touching his arm lightly. "You have been a great help to me… and I thank you."  
  
He tipped his hat to her, opening the side door of the coach for her. "A pleasure, my dear. You have been a great distraction from my depressing inner monologue, as well. I have almost forgotten how much my brother will kill me for missing our meeting!" He laughed heartily in good jest, and held out his hand to help her up the steps.  
  
She graciously took it, and lifted her heavy skirts to climb. She settled them around her and took off her scarf to rearrange her hair; however, the red blur flew away into the harsh wind.  
  
"Oh, no!" she called, reaching out for the cloth. The gray blur that was Raoul quickly ran after it. It flew over the hills of snow and down toward the road. Soon Christine could not see the scarf, as it seemed to have landed in a small valley made out of snow and grass hidden beneath. Raoul jumped as far as he could over the hill, but sadly, Christine heard a splat and realized he must have landed in the slush. She giggled a bit, though reprimanded herself for doing so.  
  
She sighed and began to step down from the carriage to help him, but suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Raoul scurrying up the path, shivering and dripping wet. He held the scarf in his gloved hands and wrung it out, brushing dirt and ice off it to make it more presentable.  
  
She sat back down in delight, smiling fondly at Raoul. He unraveled it and folded it back, and handed it to her, teeth chattering and hat askew. She laughed, patting his arm and taking the scarf. "Oh, Monsieur… You did not have to go to all that trouble!"  
  
He smiled, and his moustache cracked as the ice caked into it broke. "A lady should not be without a scarf, especially not one so lovely as this!"  
  
She leaned down and laid her hand on his frigid cheek. His expression bore confusion, but she soon quelled his fears with a small, friendly kiss on the other cheek.  
  
She moved away, leaning back into the seat in preparation for the departure. She saw him blush profusely and rub both cheeks, and she grinned. "Driver," she called to the front, "Please depart. I mustn't be late!"  
  
The Vicomte blindly closed the door to the coach, and Christine leaned out the window as the cab began to roll away. He followed next to it and touched her hand fleetingly. "Where will I see you again?" He called as the wind began to pick up.  
  
The carriage moved faster, and she was beginning to lose him. She leaned further out as he began to fade off into the distance.  
  
"At the opera!" She cried to him, wind whipping her face and hair. It twirled around her, and she brushed it aside. "At the opera!" she repeated. "Where dreams come true!"  
  
She smiled widely at him as the cab turned the corner, and she lost view of his form.

* * *

It seemed Christine hadn't smiled for days until she met Raoul. What a kind person, clearly smitten with her. She stroked her damp scarf as trees covered in snow passed by the window at a leisurely pace. It was a strange feeling that was building in her chest. She blushed as she recalled his own reddening and tapped her lips where they had kissed his frozen skin. She had never kissed another man before, other than her father…  
  
Suddenly her mood dampened at the remembrance. The entire reason for her travels was for him. She wished it wasn't. She wished she could have been travelling to a warm home, a fire crackling in the fireplace as she sat at her father's feet. She wished she could come home to stories told in the sweetest whisper, meant for her ears only, and most of all she wished she could hear the sound of his violin, bow sliding across the strings with ease.  
  
As it was, she was traveling to his cold home, the cold home for corpses. The Perros Graveyard was where her father rested now, He was bit by the jaws of fate naught but a year ago that day, and she journeyed to commemorate the occasion. If anything, she just wished to be near him, on the day he had left her. It seemed cruel of him to abandon her so easily, but she would not hold it against him.  
  
She hoped against hope that she would reach her destination soon. She wanted to be through with this day and return to the opera. She adored the opera, not just because it reminded her of her father, but because of the vibrancy and life it offered. Her father had often told her the stories presented in the plays that graced the stage, and when she joined the company she was so happy to be able to be a part of those stories.  
  
Now, the cold air did nothing but remind her of the bitter days when her father was ill. There was no laughter then. Merely mourning, loss, and strife enclosing their lives like a cocoon, only here there would be no rebirth. Not for her father at least.  
  
Finally, she reached the graveyard, and the driver stepped down from his seat to open the door for her. She padded on the soft snow and asked the man to wait for her there. She started toward the entrance, reaching into the bag hanging from her hip for the papers she planned to leave at his grave. It was a roll of sheet music, that surely his spirit in heaven would enjoy hearing. She had planned to bring flowers, but the snow had prevented her from stopping into town to buy some. The snowy inn was the only place open when she had reached there.  
  
She traversed the sparse grounds with only silent wind reaching her ears. She knew the path to his grave well, as in the beginning, when he'd died, she'd often come to speak with him about her troubles. It had been months, however, since she'd last been there. The memories had become too painful to bear.  
  
She kept her head high and her face dry, however. She would not cry on this day, when tears were not needed.  
  
She turned a corner and strolled through a patch of graves, sorry for whatever poor souls lay beneath them. Finally, she neared his marker, and when she saw his name, she ran to the space and flung herself down where six feet underground her father slept. She clutched the bit of music close and struggled not to shed a tear. She spoke to the sky, her voice barely a murmur.  
  
"Father… Papa I am so lost without you! I can barely smile anymore… Not without reminding myself you cannot. Dreaming and wishing is not enough! Why did the Lord take you from me so soon? He must have had a reason… Why can he not give me some sign? You must have been needed, but for what purpose? Isn't being with your only daughter important? How can a disease have beaten you; you, a man so strong that I always felt protected? I always felt safe. Now I do not know what I am. I am nothing but an orphan singing for the wind…"  
  
Christine finally let out a sob, clutching the snow and letting it freeze her hands as her heart was frozen. She clenched her eyes tight and whispered prayers up to heaven.  
  
A sound suddenly startled her. She opened her eyes and realized it was the crunching of ice on the ground. They couldn't be more than three rows of graves away, but they seemed loud enough to hear in the still air. She sat up slowly and looked to where it was coming from, but there was no one there.  
  
Perhaps she had just been imagining things. No matter, whatever it was, it had pulled her from her morbid monologue, and she graciously thanked the creature for remind her that she could not keep the driver waiting for long.  
  
She set the sheet music up against the grave, hoping its sweet melodies would reach her father in heaven. She stood up, and began to quietly walk away. She neared the end of the row of graves when suddenly another noise penetrated the thick winter silence.  
  
It started slowly and softly, as if it was afraid to disturb what little peace the graveyard held. It stopped her in her tracks, however, and left her paralyzed in its wake.  
  
There, all around her and the dead, was the sound of a violin, playing the sweetest, most otherworldly tune she had ever heard. It leapt across tombstone by tombstone and danced all around her with such sadness and lamenting that she thought death was surely following in its wake. The song was so morose, so forlorn that it made her want to fall to her knees and cry for its hidden musician. For the person must have been entirely despondent. The poor soul must have wept its tears into the instrument, and it played on its own, powered by the glistening liquid filled with listless fluidity.  
  
A few tears escaped her eyes, and she wanted to know what had caused this sorrowful ritual. She turned to where she had heard the crunching sound, and found that the violin's source came from there as well. Quiet as a cat, she picked up her skirt little by little and inched her way toward it. She peered around the towering angels and crosses, bent down withered branches of trees in between to catch a glimpse of the mysterious person.  
  
Then, she saw it! A flash of black, and the music stopped. It must have heard her! She cursed her dreaded skirts as the figure began to run away toward the ominous mausoleum that sat on the top of the hill, thickets of overgrown bushes surrounding its decaying land.  
  
"Wait!" she called with a small noise. She let her skirts fall and began running to catch up with the figure. Her coat billowed around her, and the frost nipped at her nose as she sprinted, her heels digging snuggly into the snow which preventing her from going faster. "Wait, Monsieur! Madame? Mademoiselle? Whatever you are! Please, wait!" She reached out a hand to the ghost-like image, until finally it turned the corner of the ancient building and hid behind it.  
  
It could run no further, for there was nothing behind the mausoleum but dense forest none but foxes and rabbits could traverse. She had the person trapped.  
  
"Sir? Madame? Are you alone?" she called to the figure. When there was no answer, she moved toward the back of the stone building, but she clearly heard the crunching of snow and gravel where the person moved away. "Please, I just wanted to say that you played beautifully."  
  
She touched her hand on the cold edifice, and peeked around the corner. She saw nothing but the glimpse of a cape, flapping in the wind as it moved to the other side. She smiled. The person must have been incredibly shy to be avoiding her in such a manner.  
  
She looked back at the graveyard to make sure they had not run off, and saw another flash of black, this time coming from the corner she had just passed. Curious, she moved back toward this spot, and saw the flash of black around the next corner! She continued like this, moving from both sides, yet still the person eluded her!  
  
Christine laughed. "Monsieur, or Madame, whichever, you have nothing to be frightened of! Please come out!"  
  
She stopped in her tracks when a cautious gloved hand inched its way around the side of the building. A tall shadow now cast the ground, and she distinctly made out the male form from it. A cape peaked out from the side as well, but no more.  
  
She sighed; relieved she had encouraged him to address her in some form or fashion. "I am sorry for being intrusive, Monsieur… But your music captivated me."  
  
She tried to tilt her head around to see his face, but he started to move away, so she stayed put. "I merely wanted to thank you. I'm sure your music reached my father in heaven, and he surely must have loved it. So… Thank you." Her eyebrows knitted together, and she thought her stay had been unwanted. "I can see you're inconvenienced. I suppose I will take my leave."  
  
She curtsied automatically, and began to turn away.  
  
The hand reached forward, and she made out long fingers and a billowing cloak draped over a finely clothed arm.  
  
"Don't go…"  
  
The voice… It was quiet, yet commanding. It seemed desperate and hurt, pleading her to stay. Most of all, however… It was like an angel. She thought no human voice could sound like that, but what she heard was spoken by a human enough man. There was not just talent in his hands, it would seem. She was sure if he sang, all men would faint at its divine quality.  
  
She turned back warily, and he must have sensed her bide, for he pulled his hand back, and scratched some ice off the side of the building absent-mindedly, close to his chest.  
  
He was silent. She leaned against the wall and sighed. She watched as her breath was caught by the icy air and transformed into visible smoke.  
  
"Monsieur, are you here alone?"  
  
Christine couldn't see, but she felt the man nod sadly, and whisper, "Yes…"  
  
She nodded back. "Do you have family, friends here…? A wife…?"  
  
The hand pulled away out of view, and she saw the entire shadow shake with its head. "No."  
  
She rubbed her arms and stepped a little closer, but made it a point to show him she was not invading his personal space. "Then why are you here playing?"  
  
"To please the dead," he said. "They are… So very lonely…"  
  
She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing to counter him. Suddenly, she thought to introduce herself. "My name is Christine… Christine Daaé… And yours?"  
  
The gravel crunched as he seemed to move closer, interested. "Daaé?" His hand reached out to her, and pointed through the wall, toward the graves. "Like the violinist on the sixth row that died last year?"  
  
Christine's eyes widened. "Yes, that is my father. How did you know?"  
  
The hand shrunk away, and she began to be accustomed to judging his emotions by the movement of his arm. "I know every grave at this site. Who else will remember them? You?"  
  
His tone suggested resentment, but she took only a moment to feel insulted, until she realized what he said was correct. "I suppose no one ever cares about the other graves… Only the ones important to them… Perhaps you are right."  
  
His hand gesture mimicked happiness, and she smiled along with it. "Of course I am."  
  
Such confidence, she mused. Perhaps he didn't receive agreement very often, and was proud of himself. "Monsieur, you have yet to tell me your name."  
  
The man was silent, but she could tell he shifted his feet in indecision. She waited patiently, eyebrows raised in expectance.  
  
Finally, he seemed to muster enough courage to address himself. "My… My name… My name is… Erik."  
  
The woman smiled, finally able to place a name to an… arm. "Erik…? Erik what? What is your surname?"  
  
She felt his head shake. "Just Erik."  
  
Her face displayed confusion, but she did not press further. "Monsieur Erik… Won't you come out from behind the wall? It is so dreadfully wearisome talking to an arm!"  
  
Erik immediately moved away, almost in flight. "Wait!" She reached out for him. "Pardon me, sir, if that offended you."  
  
He stopped, thankfully. "It is no offense. Merely an impossibility." He began to move away again.  
  
"But why?" She finally closed in around the corner, and she saw him for the first time, if only his backside.  
  
His cloak hung loosely on his towering form, reaching all the way to his ankles. It flapped in the wind, and she saw the lining was a deep wine red. His hand rested on the wall as he stopped, realizing she had seen him. The arm was long compared to where his shoulder was situated. Underneath a black fedora with a silk wine ribbon ornamenting it lie a mop of dark hair, gray strands flecked here and there, or perhaps it was the snow. She could not see much else, as the cloak obstructed most of her view.  
  
She heard him audibly gasp, and she was worried she had upset him. He merely pulled his cloak closer, and barely peeked over his shoulder to see her.  
  
She smiled at him, hoping to reassure him, but he turned back, gasping again.  
  
She laughed lightly. "Monsieur, I promise you, I'm no judge of appearance if that is what you are worried about. I'm a good Christian, and the Lord says not to presume that appearances reflect inner beauty." She nodded to further her statement.  
  
He hesitated. "If I turn around… Just… Do not… Do not touch it."  
  
Christine raised an eyebrow. "Touch what?"  
  
He shook his head. "Just don't touch it!"  
  
She was startled by his sudden outburst, but he calmed down soon after. "I promise," she said.  
  
He grunted, and appeared to close in on himself, but reluctantly, he moved to face her.  
  
She did not know what to expect when he begged her not to touch "it." Especially not a mask. It was black and seemed to cover his entire face, and a large wine colored cloth wrapped around it and his head at his mouth and up to his ear, to shield his neck from the cold, as well as his mouth. He fingered the material lightly with one hand, holding his violin with another, and it was only now that she saw his body. He was deathly thin, and his clothes hung from his body as if he could not find any made to fit his size. He had no hips or waist to speak of, and his legs were incredibly long. Overall, his entire appearance suggested a skeleton.  
  
She managed to contain a shocked gasp, but Erik must have seen the evidence on her face that she was surprised. She could not tell his expression by his face, for the mask obstructed her view, but his hands clenched themselves in contempt.  
  
"You are just like the others, of course." He turned to walk away.  
  
"No!" She touched his arm to keep him from departing.  
  
His whole body stiffened, and she saw icy fumes escaping his nostrils where the mask permitted. She pulled her hand back, frightened she'd angered him. "I'm sorry," she whispered.  
  
He shivered, pulling his cloak closer. He nodded, and started off again. "You have a place to be, I can tell. Erik will leave you now."  
  
She was confused at his speaking in third person, but dismissed it. "Monsieur, how did you get here?"  
  
He stopped short, halfway down the hill with her following. "I walked."  
  
She gasped. "You walked? In this snow? I'm surprised you don't have a dire cold!"  
  
She ran up next to him and slid her arm through his. He was startled, but she wouldn't let go. "I shall drive you home in my carriage. The driver will say nothing, I promise. He knows his place. May I ask where you live?"  
  
Erik seemed like he didn't know what to do. He couldn't go any further, but could only stare at the hand resting on his forearm, and the close proximity of Christine. She heard him gulp, and say, "Un… I mean… Near the Palais Garnier…"  
  
She beamed. "That is perfect! I work there, and I'm going back now." She began to lead him confidently to the entrance of the graveyard, and he dumbly followed along.  
  
"You work there?" he asked.  
  
She nodded, proud of her occupation. "Yes, I sing in the chorus, and understudy for some of the sopranos. Do you visit often, since you live so near?"  
  
He nodded, shifting himself on her arm. He seemed uncomfortable, but she would not relinquish him until they were safe inside the cab.  
  
"Then perhaps I will see you there… We are performing Rigoletto this season. I would love it if you'd attend."  
  
He nodded again. "I attend every performance."  
  
Her eyes widened. "You can afford that?"  
  
"…Yes," he said plainly.  
  
She wondered what it would be like to have that kind of wealth, but he clearly did not care to have it, as any normal person proud of their inheritance would boast. Raoul had been similar. They both seemed to decline to brag about all they could afford, and she thought it was an admirable quality in both.  
  
Christine beamed. "This is wonderful!" she exclaimed.  
  
"What is?" he asked curiously. His voice was never above a whisper, as if he was intimidated by her.  
  
"I have met two great people in the past two days!" She hoped to spend time with both Raoul and Erik more. Though she hoped Erik would open up to her. She knew he must have a kind heart to produce such beautiful music, but must have been shy due to his particular situation. The mask must have hid something he was ashamed of, a burn or a dreadful pockmark, and must have made him a recluse. No matter, as Christine was always one to bring out the best in people.  
  
"Two?" he said, his voice lowering.  
  
"Yes, I stopped at an inn yesterday on my way here and met a wonderful man named Raoul. He was very kind, and even fetched my scarf from being blown away." They neared the entrance, and she saw the cabbie dosing off at the helm, the horses neighing with one nibbling on the grass that stuck out from the snow.  
  
Erik said nothing. They reached the door, and Christine called up to the driver to wake up. When he woke, he eyed them suspiciously, but Christine assured him Erik was just a friend and she was taking him home.  
  
Erik awkwardly opened the door and led Christine up the steps. He took a moment to glance inside before he followed, sitting opposite her on the far end of the cab, pressed up against the window.  
  
She spread her scarf over her skirt and fingered the tassels. She looked over to Erik as the carriage began to role away, and he held his violin close.  
  
"You will come to see me at the opera then?" She asked.  
  
He nodded curtly, pulling the brim of his hat down over his eyes.  
  
She smiled. It was obvious he did not want to talk further, so they traveled the rest of the way in silence.  
  
It would seem odd to most people that she had demanded his presence so easily, but after Raoul had cheered her up the day before, she felt confidant in all aspects of her life, including her ability to make friends. It seemed Raoul had been a ray of sunlight. He had purposely spoken to her to make her happy, he had later confessed over dinner the night before.  
  
She decided to do the same for Erik. He seemed the miserable type, and she vowed to place a smile on his face (hopefully unmasked, for she also vowed for him to take the mask off one day), just as Raoul had placed one on hers.  
  
Christine let her thoughts trail away for the entire trip, which was a good while. It was not until night that they returned to Paris proper. Erik directed the driver, albeit quietly, to his street, which truly was only minutes away from the opera.  
  
They stopped for him to get out. "Monsieur Erik," Christine called. She grasped the hem of his cloak on his way out. "I… I hope we can be friends."  
  
He leapt out of the cab and turned back to her, closing the door and speaking to her through the window. "Yes… Yes, Mademoiselle, as do I."  
  
She nodded, gleaming. "Then we shall see each other at the opera." She gestured to the cabbie to drive. As she left, she waved back at Erik, who appeared to disappear into the night with his dark attire.  
  
Suddenly, she saw a pale hand wave back at her. She smiled, leaning back into the seat, ready to return home to the opera and sink into her warm bed.  
  
She would dream of a handsome man and a stranger in a dark mask that night. She was sure of it.


End file.
